


Small Hurts

by Merelymine



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angelic Healing, Crowley’s a dumbass, First Kiss, M/M, human impulses, ineffable husbands, itdiots in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-09 20:05:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19483054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merelymine/pseuds/Merelymine
Summary: The feeling is hard to describe. If pressed, Crowley might admit that it was something close to euphoria. Something close to the exhilaration of putting the stars in the night sky, of the heavens bright and young and dazzling with hope.





	Small Hurts

It starts with nothing more than a hangnail.

Aziraphale is going on and on about some ancient book he was able to get from an estate sale and Crowley’s not really listening, just letting the cadence of the angel’s words wash over him and muttering the occasional thing or two when the timing seems appropriate. He’s focused on the thumb of his left hand, where a tiny tear in the skin has peeled back at the cuticle. Pressing against it with the nail of his other thumb, fascinated by the little frissons of sensation it sends along his nerves.

He usually doesn’t have these little hurts, wishing them gone the instant they appear without so much as a second thought, but this one apparently escaped his notice.

He doesn’t realize how absorbed he is, or that Aziraphale has stopped talking until the angel’s hand suddenly covers his. He looks up to see him looking back, but there’s nothing else he can understand because Aziraphale tuts at him and says “Really, dear boy,” and heals him.

The sensation is altogether too much, and his higher functions, for a few short seconds, stop.

The feeling is hard to describe. If pressed, Crowley might admit that it was something close to euphoria. Something close to the exhilaration of putting the stars in the night sky, of the heavens bright and young and dazzling with hope.

He jerks his hand back, and stares at it, still fuzzy on what had just happened.

Aziraphale doesn’t notice. Takes a sip of his tea and smiles the faraway smile he gets when he’s talking about books. “There now, all better. Now where was I? Oh yes! The illuminations!”

Crowley doesn’t think about it. Much.

There’s an apocalypse to thwart, after all, and he’s busy trying to make sure Warlock gets a balanced education.

He resists the urge to nap for another 100 years, because they’re on a time crunch with this whole disgusting business.

Still, he takes extra care not to let any hurts linger when he’s in Aziraphale’s company.

And if he thinks about it, maybe late at night when he’s enjoying the comfort of his ridiculously huge and luxurious bed, well, that’s nobody’s blessed business but his own.

It’s not until after the apocalypse doesn’t happen, after they take a bus to Oxford that’s surprised to find itself heading to London, after they switch bodies and end up on top of it all that it happens again.

He’s tired, down to his bones and not nearly drunk enough to deal with the fucking insanity of this whole week, and Aziraphale is standing in front of him with that small nervous smile of his.

Crowley says, at a loss for anything else, “Fancy dinner?”

And Aziraphale answers, “That would be lovely,” nervous smile and all. The same one that greeted him in the Bastille, giving him a good once over that Crowley has always known was less about his sudden appearance than about his clothing; the tight pants he was wearing that had that little place in the French Revolution.

So they go to the Ritz.

There’s an unexpected table for two and a bird of some sort sings in the square. Crowley could give a fuck what it is but Aziraphale seems pleased by it.

They have a lovely meal (Crowley has a lovely cocktail and Aziraphale has a lovely meal, but who’s counting at this point) and end up taking a perfectly restored Bentley back to the bookshop.

Crowley follows him inside, lacking anything else he wants to do, and when Aziraphale stops to stare at him and then cups his hand against Crowey’s cheek he can’t be bothered to stop him.

Aziraphale heals some small hurt.

It feels like lightning in a summer storm. Like the shock of absolute and utter acceptance and love. Like a million other things Crowley has tried to stay away from for millennia.

He makes a small, hurt noise that no doubt sounds like some sort of art house pornography. It takes him what feels like a few millennia to open his eyes again. He doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to see everything he’s ever imagined reflected back at him in cornflower blue. Doesn’t want to ruin everything as he always seems to.

Entanglements are complicated. He learned that particular lesson a long long time ago, feeling the very first rain fall around him as the angel of the eastern gate sheltered him under his wing without a second thought.

Aziraphale watches him now, lips pursed and seemingly aware of everything that’s happening in a way he usually doesn’t allow himself to be, aware of Crowley in a way that he’s always been on the edge of but not allowed himself in such a human, emotional way.

(“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”)

“Do you want to stay here? For a drink, I mean” The angel asks, sounding nervous. “It’s perfectly safe for you to go home, I’m sure,” he adds, sounding all the world to Crowley’s ears like he doesn’t actually want to be alone. Could be wishful thinking but it could be the truth of the thing, if Crowleys any sort of judge.

“Drink sounds good,” he says, instead of anything more dangerous. Aziraphale snaps his fingers.

“I’ve got just the thing,” he says, and darts into the back room of the bookshop. Crowley follows behind, slower and more sedate. He perches on the arm of the ancient couch as Aziraphale goes into what can only be generously described as a kitchenette. He looks around at the space, almost perfect in its restoration, taking in the dim, almost atmospheric lighting, and waits for Aziraphale’s return.

There was once, long long ago, where he thought that Aziraphale had designed his bookshop specifically as a temptation for Crowley. It wasn’t too long before he realized this was just a quirk of the angel’s nature in not giving a damn about interior decorating and Crowley’s own desire to hide in the dark and did his best to valiantly ignore it.

He still likes it.

Does his best to forget about it burning around him.

If he concentrates he can still smell smoke in the air.

Aziraphale comes back then, two glasses in his hand and a bottle under his arm. “Here you go,” he says, “I’ve been saving this for at least four hundred years.”

He goes to pour out the wine and it's just a trickle, thick to the point of syrup. Adam must have missed the whole point of wine, either that or his parents have terrible taste. Crowley raises what he knows is an impeccable eyebrow.

“Oh dear,” the angel says, flustered and disappointed. Crowley can’t deal with that at all so he snaps his fingers and bottle is surprised to find itself a respectably aged scotch.

“Try again,” he says, and when Aziraphale pours it comes out golden.

“Ah, Good.”

Crowley quirks his lips and tips his glass up. “To the end of the world.”

Aziraphale gives him an honest to hell grin. “To the not-so-end of the world.”

Their glasses clink together and Crowley downs his in one. Aziraphale is giving him a look, somewhat concerned, and Crowley is about to make a snide comment about his drinking when the angel sits his glass down, takes a step closer, and puts his hand on Crowley's temple.

He’s so close, closer than he usually allows himself, and all Crowley can do is stare at him. His face is almost hard to see so near, but Crowley can tell it’s fixed in concentration, lip pursed in a tiny frown and brow furrowed.

“Really, my dear, I don’t know how you manage to get so banged up.”

“You were taking care of it last,” he retorts but then there it is again, that rush of angelic power, the small miracle over his skin that tells him he missed another cut or bruise.

It’s amazing.

Sharp and clean and everything he’s missed for the last six millennia.

He never meant to fall. He just had a lot of questions. Since when is curiosity a sin?

He can hear his knees hit the floor but can’t feel it, and the angel is there with him, cradling his head and sounding obnoxiously frantic about the whole thing.

“Crowley! Crowley! Are you alright? Oh dear please tell me you’re ok, if I’ve killed you, I swear-“

Crowley grabs the hand on his temple, covering it with steady pressure. “I’m good, angel.”

“I’m perfect.”

Aziraphale’s lip trembles, but he rallys quickly, covering it up as he’s done for who knows how long now. Crowley’s really just catching on.

“I thought I’d hurt you,” he says, giving Crowley a tiny little wavering smile.

Crowley tips his head into Aziraphale’s hand. He’s so very very tired of this all. The apocalypse is over and they’ve been all but abandoned by their home offices, as it were. They’re free agents. “It feels nice,” he says, looking the angel dead in the eye as he turns his head to kiss his palm. Soft skin without a hint of callus, and Aziraphale’s eyes widen. His other hand flexes against Crowley’s neck, long fingers digging into the short cropped hair behind his ears.

“Tell me I’m going too fast and I’ll stop, I swear,” Crowley murmurs, and he even means it.

For once in his long life he means it.

They’re still so close together, and Aziraphale’s gaze dips towards his lips the way it has a thousand times. This time, though, he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t change the subject and look anywhere but at Crowley. Has the absolute audacity to move his hand and pull the demon’s glasses off.

“You don’t need these here, you know.”

And that’s it. That’s all Crowley can take, kneeling in a bookshop he last saw burning with the only being in the whole of creation he cares a bit about looking back at him. They aren't’ dead. Aren’t destroyed, and the only thing he can think to do is so painfully, utterly human.

His hands come up in a mirror of Aziraphale’s and before he can give it a second thought they’re kissing.

Soft, and gentle and everything every blessed romance novel he’s ever read and then immediately banished into non-existence said it would be.

Better than any healing rush of angelic power. It’s just Aziraphale, lips and skin and a faint reminder of the custard he had for dessert. His hair is soft when Crowley digs his fingers in it like he’s imagined for an embarrassingly long time, fine and silk-spun and sliding under his fingers as he cradles Aziraphales head in his hands.

Tilts his own to the side, thrilled as the angel’s mouth opens against him, soft and yielding. Flicks his tongue out to taste deeper, searching and Aziraphale shudders against him, tenses up.

(“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”)

With some huge reserve of willpower he was unaware he had, Crowley pulls back. Rests his forehead against the angel’s.

“Too much?” he asks.

Aziraphale is trembling, seems overwhelmed. “I’m just not used to it,” he says.

‘But I’ll get there,” he adds, before Crowley can start to second, third and even fourth guess himself. Pulling back a little and giving Crowley a small smile.

Crowley can feel his lips tug up in response, and for the first time since the garden he doesn’t try and stop it. “How about another drink, angel?”


End file.
